


comparisons

by chuchisushi



Series: the bastion collective [12]
Category: Bastion
Genre: M/M, Post-Evacuation, not bittersweet for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/pseuds/chuchisushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Kid's shorter than Zulf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	comparisons

The Kid has to stand on his tiptoes for kisses. It’s the matter of a head or so’s height between the two of them, but it comes down to the Kid being too short to sneak kisses when they’re standing together.

Zulf wonders if it says something about him that he never notices the difference until the Kid’s impatiently yanking him down to mash their lips together; rather, maybe, it says something about the _Kid_. How, despite being smaller, he’s like bedrock, weathered and sunbleached until there’s nothing but the primal steadiness of himself, that constant conviction of forward action that underlies his every movement, even in his times of doubt.

They make quite a pair: the Kid half-kitted in armor and bristling with weapons or nicknacks, he with his patterned skirts, brightly-colored clothes, all straight, smoothed lines. The contrast between their hair, their skin; his is black to the Kid’s white, thick like fur and as glossy as a pecker’s wing, the Kid’s sun-damaged, fine and light, a dandelion’s puff of white. Zulf holds bruises livid and purple against alabaster skin; the Kid hides his under rich copper.

And the Kid’s shorter than him. Stockier, solid, strong from years on the Rippling Walls and their lives now; he weighs more than Zulf despite the height difference.

His favorite thing to tease the Kid with is to come up behind him, rest his chin atop the crown of his head and wind arms around his torso, snuggle into him; depending on how the Kid’s mood is that day, he’ll either wrap hands around his forearms, squeeze them as though to reassure Zulf that he’s there, will be there; or push him off, grumbling about looming; or, like today, turn the tables on him, spinning in his arms to grab the collar of his shirt and yank him down for a kiss, wrestle his grip off or scuffle them down onto the ground where they’ll roll, laughing. Sometimes it leads to sex. Sometimes they’ll end up just as breathless, the Kid pinning him down with his bulk, face level with his, lingering smiles, laughter, on their mouths.

There’s grass in the Kid’s bangs, and Zulf reaches up to pluck it out, tossing it aside, runs a hand through the Kid’s hair, and he leans close at the touch, pressing their foreheads together to breathe the same air for long heartbeats, savoring the intimate space, quiet between them.


End file.
